


With Wit and Soul Intact

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arwen and Eowyn would rather their husbands got it on together, But you could write a mirror from their POV if you really wanted, Don't you think so?, Dwarf/Elf, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), It is hard to smut in Tolkienspeak OMG, M/M, OK so actually there's not much Aragorn/Faramir smut described in this, Orgy, POV First Person, PWP, Privacy taboos, Secret Crush, Secret love, Shieldbrothers, Smut, Than have them do a bunch of snippy harem girls, The elf is smarter than the dwarf thinks, angsty dwarf, crackfic, did i mention smut, fucking for the sake of diplomatic relations, just give it a chance, unlikely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a peace conference, Legolas panics and freezes at an unexpected orgy.  Gimli offers to sex the elf for the sake of diplomatic relations.  He tries not to let Legolas know his heart is really in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Wit and Soul Intact

“Let the orgy begin!”  The Harad chieftain claps sharply, and girls barely veiled in gauze flow out of antechambers to surround the company, one kneeling before each of the males present.  Their clothing is scant, and if the command is an unfamiliar one, its meaning is not in doubt for long as the girls reach out, bold, to lay hands upon us.

Legolas and I exchange glances with Aragorn, who gives us a small shrug. He would not disrupt the effort at diplomacy by rejecting our hosts’ hospitality.  And yet, he reaches beside him to Faramir rather than accepting the concubine who kneels by his couch.  It is rescue, of a sort.  Faramir’s eyes are wide and startled, yet he calms when his king—his friend—claims him.

The girl before me is not uncomely, her eyes ringed with kohl.  Her hand is bold and warm.  To lie with her would be strange, but no great hardship.  It would be a wondrous bawdy tale to astonish my companions when I return to my forge.  My father and my uncles have warned me of the odd ways of Men so I am, at least, forewarned. 

It seems the Elf is not.  He is taken aback despite all his long years in Middle Earth.  He blinks, astonished, and recoils from the embellished fingers that lie upon his knee.  I have but a split second to make my choice.  The king’s example gives me boldness, but it is the panic on Legolas’s face that decides me.   He shies from the woman like an untested horse facing a cave troll.  It is a thing that I have never seen before.  

“Come to me, Elf, if she is not to your liking.”  I can hardly believe I have spoken, yet I open my arms to him. To my astonishment, he turns from the girl in haste.    

I never dreamed of such a chance. I would bless our hosts for it, if I could.  I would offer them my service and my family’s for time out of mind.  Even now, as the Elf turns to me and abandons his couch, I cannot believe this moment might possibly be real.  It is surely naught but a dream, brought on by too much ale….

He comes in haste, at first, but slows as he nears me, ready to shy again.  Out of the crucible, into the forge-fire?  I have never been able to manage overwrought horses, but perhaps I may hope to temper the steel of an Elf.  If I succeed, this will be no journeyman effort, but a master’s piece.

“Come, my friend.”  I lower my voice.  “It is I.  Have no fear.”

He settles on the edge of my couch, the girls turning away and leaving us.  He is nervous as a maid, barely perching upon the couch, stiff in every part of him but the one required.  I smile at him, waiting.  It would not do to pounce.

“Gimli…”

“Hush.” I comfort him on a breath, glancing about. None, it seems, are in a hurry. Our hosts recline at leisure. Some hold their ladies within the curve of one arm, feeding them sweetmeats or wine. There is plenty of time.

It is a good way to begin what must be done.

I coax Legolas to sit closer, though he does not let his upright spine touch the back of the couch. I reach for a platter of dainties such as he likes: fruit and honey, bread and a pitcher of wine. When I do no more he settles, his gaze flicking aside to touch mine. I reach to feed him from my fingers. I smile a little and remain steady, and after a moment he accepts the grape I offer, managing neatly without touching lip or tongue to flesh.

“This is….” he chews and swallows, looking away.

Awkward? Uncomfortable, clumsy?   Perhaps so, but I have not yet offended him so much he will not speak to me, and for this I rejoice.

He averts his eyes from those around us, and again I am surprised by his modesty. Is this the same Elf I have seen strip to bathe in an icy mountain stream, regardless which of the Fellowship might be watching? Does he not come from a people who live in pillared shelters and tree houses, with hardly a wall to be found? Perhaps Elves hide themselves away to breed. There are surely odder customs in the world.

The activity around us progresses, and perhaps it is time to join them. I lift a goblet of wine to his lips. He steadies it with one hand, and I take my chance to move closer. “Into my lap, Elf.” I murmur in his ear, noticing the delicacy of its curve and point, as beautiful as the finest hand-tooled archway and capstone ever fashioned to grace a Dwarven hall.

He hesitates, then slips near. His thighs drape over mine and he curls against my neck as if to kiss me. I slide my arm about him, careful. He is warm and the bones of him feel long and strange.

“This is not the way of my people.” His voice ghosts against my ear, low with shame. “We do not do such things with strangers, or in company.”

“Then it is well I am not a stranger.” I stroke his hair, slow and gentle. Does he truly prefer me to the girl? Would he make the same choice again?

“Yes.” His breath warms my ear. “It is well.”

I judge it time to kiss him, but I do not dare claim his mouth. Instead I nuzzle my cheek against his, tracing the shell of his ear with my lips. His hands tighten to fists in my cloak. Though each of us bitterly resisted leaving armor and arms outside the parley room, I am glad there is only cloth between us now.

It is real. He is in my arms. With every moment, I am more certain that this is happening—and more aware of the tightrope I walk. I cannot afford to falter.

He is still, but not yet pliant against me. I must teach him this is more than expedience, more than a show to deflect embarrassment from our king, who even now is making Faramir gasp.

I vow I will do the same to Legolas.

“Trust in me,” I breathe, and let the hum of it tickle his ear. Warm and low I rumble the words. Pressed against me as he is, I know he feels them. I touch his ear again—the most delicate brush of lip, repeating the caress by running the tip of my nose along its curve. My beard rustles against his face, and my hands are strong behind his shoulders. I glide my fingers along his spine. He wears a satiny weave that looks rough, but it is as light as a whisper of silk. My callused fingertips threaten to snag in it, and I wish it were gone. Not yet, not yet.

I must not rush this chance.

He is acquiescent, but not yet pliant. Not yet. I move my hand to his forearm, which is bare. I run my palm along it, lightly enough I am tickled by the fine hairs that grow there. His hair smells of green fir boughs warmed by summer sunlight. I whisper those words to him in my own tongue. It makes him shiver and the soft down under my palm prickles, rising to greet my touch. That is better; I like to feel him rouse to me, slight though his response yet is. He is warm, but I am hot. I will not let him know how hot. Not yet, if ever.

My fingertips circle at his elbow, my thumb finding the fine-grained skin inside its hollow. His pulse waits there. I do not know how swift it is when he is calm, but it beats quickly beneath my touch. Does my thumb feel warm or chill to him? Hard or soft? Callused and coarse, or strong and firm? I do not know. I cannot know.

Again I touch his ear with my lips, firmer this time, catching the rim of it and tugging lightly, the smallest of kisses. I trail my mouth down to the lobe, then close upon it and taste it with my tongue. His skin is sweet and savory all at once, like sugared salt.

He flinches then, the smallest start, surprised. I pause to let him settle. I rub circles on his arm with my fingertips, soothing him. Can he be so surprised that I should appreciate beauty when I find it? Is he dismayed that I touch him in this way now? That I should touch him ever?

Perhaps, but he does not draw back. Instead, he slides his arm loosely around my shoulders and tilts his neck, submitting his ear to me. I am permitted to continue, if I wish.

I do. Mahal help me, I do. I would not stop now for anything short of the Elf’s command.

I taste him again and like it, tracing my tongue along his ear, then blowing softly to cool my path.

I feel him release a breath. Grandsire to a gasp, that breath, the harbinger of more. He feels pleasure in my touch, I know it.

I surprise him with my delicacy—he yet thinks Dwarves a coarse and brutal people. But my fingers have carved filigree in gems so delicate that no eyes can see, no fingers can feel. I will not mar this task.

I kiss him again, clasping his arms to steady him as I close my lips on the rim of his ear and suckle, touching its curl ever so lightly with my teeth.

Legolas shivers for me. He lifts his whole body, his shoulders rising, his chest expanding as he draws breath. It is the curl of smoke before the fire kindles.

I rumble wordlessly against him as I bite my way softly down along his ear. I do not know what pleasures the Elves prefer, what touches drive them mad, but I think this pleases Legolas. Perhaps I may venture more and hope to guess aright.

My hands slide to his waist. I pull him closer and he does not resist. His hips shift, and then his weight is upon my lap, his arms twining behind my neck. He offers me his throat.

Perhaps it is still an act; perhaps he is not aflame. No, not yet. I must strike while the tinder is hot, so I do not waste my work.  

I bend to his throat, brushing my lips along the length of it. His hair trails over his skin, and I lift my hand to brush it aside, to bare his throat for my hungry mouth. When I saw him as my enemy, I might have used my axe upon this throat. Not so long ago, it was, but now….

I dust kisses along the smooth white skin, and I linger, teasing him with the promise of more, but I do not open my lips yet. I do not taste him, I do not bite or suck. Instead, I move my hands. Now they rest upon his shoulders, now upon his neck.

He is strong, wiry muscle beneath my palms. My thumbs stop at the hollow of his throat, and my fingers rest upon his spine. Again I think of killing—from this position it would be quite simple. And yet, he has naught to fear, not from me. He knows it well; he does not stir to escape my grasp.

If there be fear in this, I should be the one to feel it, for I am the one who—no. I will not think it, lest he hear me by some Elvish magic. We are too near.

I spread my fingers and kiss between them. I touch my tongue to his throat, savoring living velvet. I tip his head aside and find the place where his shoulder joins his neck. Only there do I touch my teeth to his flesh, sealing my lips to suckle for a moment. Not enough to mark.

I would not presume to mar his perfection.

I draw back to see him. His eyes are closed, and a flush stains his cheek, the faintest hint of pink upon the petal of a white rose.

I reach to the fastening of his tunic, and I would work it, but I am clumsy, and I do not know its secret.

His eyes open.

They fix me where I am; I cannot stir. I have never seen such clarity or light, not even within the Arkenstone of Thorin. And yet, his lids are heavy with newfound lassitude and his lips part to show the darting flicker of his tongue. His eyes do not move as he searches mine.

Oh, I am lost. I cannot breathe; I cannot hope. I pray you do not gainsay me, Elf. I could not bear it. Let me have this moment, if no other.

I cannot count the time that passes before he replaces my fingers with his own and the clasp springs open.

I swallow hard and tease his tunic apart. His chest is narrow, rib and muscle shadowed between the wings of cloth. Such beauty I am not fit to see. I brush my hand along his breastbone, then dip my head to kiss the vulnerable hollow where my thumbs rested.

I want his mouth, but I am afraid.

His head tips forward. I feel him press his cheek against my hair; his hand stirs between my shoulders.

It is a caress.

I am undone, my eyes wet. I nose blindly along his neck, finding the centers of his palms with my hands, caressing their hollows with my fingertips. He moves easily now. He grows hot for me; his limbs moving easily as he learns to trust this thing, as he finds it pleasing.

I must regain control over myself if I hope to endure this, to survive him with wit and soul intact.

I take a deep breath. I would pray to Mahal, but surely he would not hear me were I to plead for the courage to kiss an Elf. All the gods of my ancestors would shun my plea and my ancestors themselves would disown me. So be it.

Those who have no gods or kin to aid them must rely upon themselves.

I pull back, drawing breath to venture what I fear, and his eyes capture me once more. They read my intent. They search and consider. They soften.

He closes his eyes and parts his lips, waiting: I may.

I ghost my lips against his, soft as down. Again, again. I will tempt him; I will draw him out. His mouth opens, expecting more. I make him wait. I will make him want. I tug at his lips ever so lightly, but never accept the unspoken invitation to venture inside.

His hand, laid softly on my back, rises slowly to my neck and when I would retreat, it firms. I am held captive an inch from his mouth.

He leans forward, closing the distance between us.

He would do this; it is no longer me doing this to him. We are doing this together. Even if it means nothing to him, I—no. I will not think until the moment is past. I will not sour my portion—never hoped for, never looked for—while I yet have it to savor.

His lips are hesitant as they explore mine, sweet and gentle, almost clumsy. Perhaps he has never done this. His tongue brushes my lower lip. I resist the urge to capture it, but I respond in kind. Our mouths meet with aching tenderness. There is hesitation, then slow deepening, as we find courage.

He tastes of starlight and the open air. I hope earth and stone taste as pleasant to him.

His hands stir on me, then begin to wander. He ventures a polite exploration of shoulder, waist and rib. I show no such restraint as my hand slides inside his tunic and finds his skin.

His eyes open, seeking mine as I touch him. They are deep and thoughtful, searching. I cannot read his expression, but I will not look away. I feel no shame in what I do.

I stroke his chest. Nothing can rival his skin: no velvet, feather, or down, no fur, be it ever so soft. My hand shapes him softly, learning every dip and curve, wandering across his nipple.

He gasps. His eyes close and he draws sharp breath, a shiver coursing through him. His chin tips up as though he would seek the stars through closed lids.

I touch it again and his white teeth crease his lower lip. My thumb circles and the faintest groan rises in his throat. I cannot help but smile: I have found a secret.

  
Art by [Ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/)

I bend, pulling his tunic aside, and press my mouth there.

Sounds are all around us, so his cry goes unremarked. I suckle and his hands curve behind my head, trembling. I bite very softly and he cries out again, forgetting himself. His hands tighten in my hair, pulling the strands.

I ignore the pain and slide my hand to his other nipple, plucking it. He quivers, strangled moans stifled in his throat.

I have him now. He is aflame.

I ease him down upon the couch and set about driving him mad with pleasure. His fingers burrow deep in my hair. His body strains up against me. He can no longer hide: he is hard, his body eager.

I smile against his flesh, kissing his nipple again, wandering away only to return. I am sly, teasing his tunic off him with a craftsman’s patience.

His eyes open again, bright and soft, to meet my gaze. I could almost imagine there is love waiting for me there. I am not deceived. There will be suffering enough tomorrow without telling myself such pleasant lies today. 

I set the heel of my palm over his straining shaft and his eyes flutter shut again as I press and stroke upward. He lifts against me, moaning his abandon and writhing with pleasure.

Impulse moves me beyond all law or custom. I lean to his ear, whispering. I name him in my own tongue, secret. Even he will not know.

“Gimli,” he answers me, his moving lips kissing the word against my skin. I am impressed he divined my intent well enough to answer in kind. I clutch him close and seek his mouth.

I crush his lips, hard and urgent, plunging inside as though I mean to fuck him with my tongue. He purrs and melts for me, his legs parting to let my body slide between them.

I rut against him, letting him feel my want, and he bucks in response. His hands pluck impatiently at my clothing.

My patience is in tatters. I slide down to the floor and unlace his breeches, freeing the straining flesh beneath. His breath hisses through his teeth. A millennium or more has passed since Dwarf knelt willingly before Elf—perhaps never with this purpose in mind.

I press a kiss against his slender shaft and taste the gleam of pearl that wells upon the tip. My arm steadies his restless hips, pressing him down. I take the crown into my mouth, pillowing it on my tongue. This time it is I who seek his gaze. When I have caught his crystal eyes, their pure blue hazed with pleasure, I do not look away as I slide down, taking him in until there is no more.

“Gimli, Gimli, _meleth nin_!” A plea for more? Perhaps. If so, I grant his wish. I rise, swirl my tongue, and descend again, sucking hard. He is at my mercy, and I give him no quarter. I pleasure him with all the ardent passion of love long suffered in silence.

I take care to keep my teeth from his flesh, sheathing them behind my lips—unless I mean to bite. At times I do, varying long sucking glides with nips to the tip that make him squirm and gasp. He digs his fingers into the cushions, tendons flexed, the lines of him strained taut as he ascends toward his pleasure. I can taste a mist of sweat on his skin, and I am reassured by the hint of musk and salt, blood and flesh.

He is beyond beauty in his lust. I fill my eyes with him even as I fill my mouth and hands. I cradle his balls in my palm and explore below, making him moan and writhe. He is hot for me; he parts his thighs when my finger finds its goal.

It is invitation enough.

It is the work of an instant to grasp a nearby phial, provided by thoughtful hosts. The oil within has a pleasant scent. He yields with a sigh, opening himself to me. I must avert my eyes, hiding my face lest he see my heart shiver within me as I press my finger inside him.

No longer aloof, remote and austere, my Elf is a thing of flesh and blood now, gasping for breath, skin damp with sweat, writhing and moaning… at the hands of a Dwarf! At my hands, touching him as I never dreamed. I bury my finger to the last knuckle. I crook it, seeking. Perhaps he is different from a Dwarf.

His cry says he is not. He lifts himself upon his elbows, eyes wide with shock. None has ever given him this pleasure, then. I am the first. I hum reassurance to him, patient and tender.

I work patiently until I can move with ease, matching the motions of hand and mouth. His breath grows shallow and quick, so I know he is near his climax. With my free hand I pinch his nipple. He bucks up with a shout.

I would chuckle if I could. It pleases me to see him in his extremity.

It starts as a quiver in his thighs, an arch and bow of back that all but lifts him from the couch. Then he is convulsing under me, in such a frenzy of sensation he does not know his strength. He nearly bucks me to the floor. I cling to him, my arms locked around his lean waist. He throws his elbow across his mouth to muffle his cries—a pity, for I would gladly hear the evidence of my skill.

He floods my mouth with sharp salt and I drink him down. He is part of me now, for the gift of one’s seed is a sacred thing among my people. We spill upon the stone when we do not love.

I shall not tell him that, I think.  

He subsides, struggling for breath. I release him and pillow my head upon his belly, holding him while he gentles.

Perhaps we are finished, though I still ache for him. I straighten my back and shift to ease my cock within my breeches. I do not expect him to continue what I began. I will content myself with having touched him, if I must. I glance toward Aragorn, who lies entwined with Faramir upon his couch. They have not yet finished.

Legolas reaches and his hand touches my cheek, turning my face back to him. A sated smile plays upon his lips, and there is kindness in his eyes.

“Let it not be said among Dwarves that an Elf will take his pleasure without returning the favor.”

“There is no debt.” I lift his hand from my face and press a kiss into the palm. “We have satisfied our hosts, surely.” It grieves me to dissemble, but I will not force him to venture more.

A frown creases the fine skin of his brow. “But I have not satisfied you.” He glances about, as if taking stock. “Come,” he says suddenly, in a tone that brooks no denial. He tugs me off the couch and steers me toward the edge of the room. There are alcoves cut into the wall, each with a low wide couch inside and a curtain to pull across as a shield.

"That is better," he says, decisive, when he has drawn the curtain, and he turns to me with a resolute look.  

"Yes.  All we need do now is wait here until the others finish," I tell him, expecting him to feel relief, but his jaw tightens and his lips narrow.  

"If that is what you truly wish."  He tilts his head.  "But it is not.  Is it, Gimli?"  The words come in tones of challenge, and a half-smile curves his lips. 

I hold the lie in readiness upon my tongue, but I cannot voice it.  I am honest.  I love him.  I will not dishonor our friendship with a falsehood.  I hesitate too long, unable to speak. His smile grows.

Now there are none watching, he has lost his modesty. He swiftly strips off his tunic and breeches. I swallow hard, my face hot, but I cannot look away.

No uncertainty remains in him, no doubt or modesty.  Curse the Elves for their surety! They are the Eldar, and they know all folk find them beautiful. All admire them. Not so the children of Mahal. I am considered comely enough among my own people, but what means that to an Elf?

He steps out of his low boots and comes to me. He sets his hands upon my face. His gaze journeys over me, his eyes alight with desire.

“I want you, too,” he whispers, and tips my mouth up to meet his kiss.  

If he has never kissed before today, then he is a swift student and I a good teacher.  His touch ravages like dragon-fire.  It will leave only cinders to smoke under the sunlight in the morning, but for now--

For now, it is glorious to burn.

I knot my fists in his hair and hold him as we kiss; I can restrain myself no longer. His skin is under my hands, and there is no barrier to my touch.

He tugs at my clothing and I hesitate, but I would feel him against me, and there are none to witness. I help him, tugging my tunic over my head. He attacks the laces of my breeches with nimble fingers.

“Boots first!” I complain, but I am already enmeshed in a hopeless tangle. He is laughing, low and wild in his throat, and he pushes until I overbalance and fall upon the couch. He tugs my boots away quickly and my leggings after, leaving only my breechclout. It is cool without my accustomed clothing.

He pauses, kneeling over me, to look his fill. His eyes trail over my tattoo sleeves, which none but a dwarf have ever seen before this day. He cannot decipher my clan heritage markings, for the words in Cirth that twine about them are Khuzdul. Likewise are the spells inked into my flesh to grant strength and safety. He does not ask their meaning. He runs a fingertip over the intricate knot-marks that signify honors I have won in combat with my axe, tracing threads of the pattern that is me.

His own pale skin is pure and unmarked.

His hands move to my chest, where his fingers trail slowly through the thatch of hair that grows there. He traces the hills and slopes of muscle I have earned swinging both hammer and axe. Everything about me is unlike his own smooth, sleek body.

His eyes are warm, and he smiles still.

If he may touch, so may I.

He is as sleek and limber as a willow wand, smooth under my rough palms. I trace the long lines of him, learning his shape. He settles onto me with a contented sigh, the most delightful blanket of warm velvet ever to cover a Dwarf. His lips begin to follow the path of his hands as he tastes me, moving steadily downward.

I am so hard I ache, my cock trapped between his chest and my belly. It is eager, and so is the Elf, but there is something strangely clumsy in the way he moves. I must know more before I can go on. I would not hurt him unawares.

“Have you done this before? Tell me true!” My voice is harsh, demanding, but he takes no offense, lifting his head.

“No.” That enigmatic smile appears again, and his voice is very soft.

“Legolas.” Words fail me, and I can only shake my head, love and exasperation waging war in my trembling heart. “You do not have to--”

“If you continue your attempts to be noble, I shall be very cross.” Legolas nips me in a sensitive spot, making me yelp. Then he takes me in his mouth, and I can no longer speak.

He is not skilled in this, yet there is no touch I would prefer. He tastes me with slow patience, exploring, testing what he may do. He does not know the way to bring a lover to climax, but what he does is quite pleasant.

He hums softly, a maddening buzz along my nerves—I need more, swiftly, but I am patient. I breathe a curse. I will wait for readiness. I _will._ I will not push into his mouth.

He tries a slow descent, his lips wet, and I groan aloud at the slick heat of his tongue. His hands cradle my balls, then move lower. An imitation of my lovemaking, the only touch he knows. I sink my teeth into my lip as his finger circles, as he considers.

“Oil,” I prompt him, husky. “To ease the way.”

He withdraws and bestows on me the most wicked smile I have ever beheld. He withdraws and goes to investigate a table, where vials of scented oil stand waiting. He tests them, one by one, lifting the corks and considering.

I lie neglected. The ceiling is swathed with gauzy fabric; it is quite uninteresting. Waiting, I mutter an urgent phrase in my own tongue—half plea, half curse. He laughs, delighted.

“Do you like this one?” He wafts the cork toward me. The fragrance is far too floral for my preference, but I do not care.

“I should like it well enough if you returned immediately, even did it reek of skunk.”

“Perhaps this one, then. Or this.”

“You are a cock-tease, Legolas. Are all Elves so?” I wrap my own hand around my shaft and squeeze to soothe it. The scents are sharp and mingled; they make me sneeze. “Such heavy perfumes make my head ache.” I do not say which head, for both trouble me: the smaller one all the more. I run the rough pad of my thumb over the tip of my cock. My hands are so harsh, compared to the smoothness of his skin….

“This, or nothing.” It is a pleasant scent, with notes of spice and earth. I approve it thoroughly.

“Yes.” He pours a puddle of oil into his palm. Perhaps he has decided he does not want to pleasure me with his mouth. It is much to ask of a novice to the art of lovemaking. I do not mind; his hands will do nicely. “Bring it at once.”

He does not obey. Instead he waits, locking eyes with me until I huff my impatience, his wicked smile never fading. Then he raises his foot to the edge of the couch and begins to prepare himself for me.

My cock pulses inside my fist and I very nearly climax at the sight. I dig my nails into my thigh to forestall it.

I am afraid to breathe or blink for fear I may miss an instant. He leans forward, his lips parting as he applies the oil, his expression absorbed.

He finishes all too swiftly and steps near. I cannot help but chuckle. “That is not good enough; you are not ready. Let me help.”

“Of course.” He comes to me, his eyes dancing with merriment, the oil in one hand.

I spread him out on his belly, a pillow under his hips. His golden hair spills over his shoulders, and I look at it with longing. I would like to bury my hands in it, but there are more urgent matters that must be tended.

He is slim, very tall, deceptively fragile, but I know the strength within those slender limbs is little less than my own. He will be harder to hurt than he looks, but I take my task slowly, oiling my hand and beginning anew with a single finger. He is tight, his body clinging to me, his breath escaping him in a small hiss as I press inside.

“Easy.” I soothe him with my free hand, feeling she sharp bones of his ribs and spine overlaid with thin, wiry muscle. “Push against me.” I am glad one of us knows what should be done.

He loosens quickly for me—a mark of trust, perhaps—and soon he is crooning with pleasure, pressing back against my fingers. My heart hammers, my throat thick with love. It seems impossible that I will soon have this thing of which I never dared dream.

“Get up on your hands and knees,” I direct him gently, but he demurs.

“I would see your face.”

“It will be easier for you if you do not.”

“I have never chosen a road merely because it seemed easy, or I would not be here with you now.” He turns over. His cock is stiff against his belly, long and slim like the rest of him.   I lay one hand across it, feeling it jump with eagerness to greet my touch. I lean in and take his mouth—so unthinkable only a short time ago, but now it is my right, at least for this moment.

I savor it, pressing my tongue deep. His dances with mine, as lithe as the rest of him. I could lie here and kiss him for hours without ending, were we vouchsafed the time. But our time here is too short.

I help him arrange himself, putting a pillow beneath his arse. My heart hammers frantically to see him spread out, long limbs graceful, waiting for me to claim him. I ready myself, steadying my cock to push into him, but I cannot. It is not in me to go on without knowing.

“Legolas.” The word is all but a prayer, torn from me in a long, aching groan. “Why?”  

He gazes up at me, his face serene. “Because after you kissed me, you could no longer hide. Your eyes say what your tongue has not.”

I am stripped more bare than skin; I cannot look away. My blood roars in my ears and my mouth tastes of copper, dry and tingling. But his eyes meet mine, and they too speak the words he has not said, born of a hope neither of us dared name.

I press forward, my gaze locked with his.

“ _Gimli-_ _nín_ ,” he breathes, his eyes shining. “ _Na vedui!”_

We rock together, slow at first, then quickening. He manages to lift himself for a kiss, and I give it gladly. He is tight and hot around me. I lose myself in his eyes, burying my flesh in his. His limbs wrap around me, and he cries out, unashamed.

He is mine. My heart surges, fierce triumph and joy so keen I can scarcely breathe for it.

He has teased me long; the time soon comes when I can delay no longer. I reach and wrap my hand around his shaft and stroke him in time with my taking. He arches up and gasps, and a flare of bliss explodes through me as I spend my seed inside him. Collapsing onto his belly, I feel his arms wrap tight about me.

Now I am a part of him, just as he is a part of me. Together we are a new thing and tomorrow, we will forge our path as one.

We curl together on the narrow couch, limbs entangled. His lids are heavy with pleasure, his lips swollen from my kisses. He strokes my beard with gentle fingers. “ _Gi melin_ , stubborn Dwarf!” he whispers, and I kiss the words from his lips.

“ _Amr_ _â_ _lim_ _ê_ , annoying Elf!” I answer him in Khuzdul, for there will be no more secrets between us.

We laugh together until he silences me with kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is influenced by the brilliance of Sansûkh. I am The Artist Formerly Known As Bill. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Thanks goes out to Ruto for creating the absolutely magnificent artwork of Legolas and Gimli! ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> meleth nin: My love  
> Gimli nin: My Gimli  
> Na vedui: At last  
> Gi melin: I love you  
> Amrâlimê: My love


End file.
